My brother Tristan tapped his fingers rhythmically against the expensive linen tablecloth while my sister Serena focused intently on her dessert plate. My mother barely seemed to breathe, and I sat there with my spine pressed against the chair, feeling as though I might shatter if I moved even an inch.
We were having Father’s Day dinner at my parents’ estate in an upscale suburb of Oak Ridge where every lawn was manicured to perfection and every family lived behind a mask of success. These gatherings followed a predictable script of grilled steaks, obligatory family portraits, and the inevitable moment when my father turned me into the punchline of a cruel joke.
My name is Maxwell Fletcher, and at thirty-five years old, I work as a guidance counselor at a local public high school. According to my father, my career is nothing more than getting paid to hand out tissue paper to weeping teenagers.
My older brother Tristan is a successful orthopedic surgeon, and my other brother Barrett owns a construction firm that has seen suspicious levels of growth. Serena married a wealthy investment strategist and fills her social media feeds with curated photos of breakfasts that look like they belong in a magazine advertisement.
I was always the invisible son, the one my father never mentioned at his private club or during Sunday services. He had already spent the evening tossing verbal daggers at me before the cake was even served.
